


What Does Tame Mean

by ShaolinQueen



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-14
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 07:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaolinQueen/pseuds/ShaolinQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...Harold would rather be part of the worst-case scenario instead of safely and soundly doing nothing. Even if every option was reduced to the one of helplessly watch John Reese die". Set after 2x16 "Relevance".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Reese

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except for grammar mistakes.

After all the time, after unexpected conversations, not so peaceful encounters, truths, secrets unveiled, secrets being kept, after comfortable silences, after brief touches, first names, after the "friend" word. After Carl Elias, Mark Snow, Samantha Groves, Nicholas Donnelly and Kara Stanton. After gunshots, wounds, explosives, after a roof. Even after that, especially after that, he wanted to be alone. Suffering was such an intimate feeling.

And as the twinge became insistent, obstinate, bold, aggressive, silently turning into fierce pain, John realised he couldn't face another roof, he couldn't face another raw display of emotions. Not when his body was betraying him, not when he had to squint his eyes to keep focus on the road. Not when his skin was becoming clammy, his hands starting to tremble and was far too hot in the car.

Maybe, at first, he could have tried to convince himself that, should the event come, Finch would feel nothing but disappointment, or annoyance at the thought of wasting precious days forging another operative. After all, time was a luxury even billionaires couldn't always afford. And the numbers never stopped coming.

Truth was he believed Harold had cared from the start. Clearly not as much as now, but he had cared nonetheless, despite his being "very private", so stern, sombre. Always firm and unfaltering. And certainly he still was, yet so much had changed between them. Sometimes John still found it hard to believe, him being himself and Finch being Finch. And of course he wasn't so naive to think Finch didn't have another "Contingency". Happy or not, he was sure Harold had had an "After John Reese" plan all along. However, he had felt the need to personally track Samantha Shaw down, because she had made an impression, indeed. And he had been lucky enough to succeed just two days prior. Just in time.

Harold would easily follow her tracks, thanks to his trademark resources and tenacity and also because John was quite pleased with the lead he got, strong and reliable enough to satisfy their usual high standard inspections.

Not that he doubted Finch's judgement, not at all. They could have had some difference of opinion now and then, but he was well conscious of the fact that Harold knew how to do his homework and pass the exam with flying colours. Only the chance had come so close he had almost felt obliged to find his own contingency, his replacement. He wasn't sure Finch was aware, and a discussion about it could easily lead to another difference of opinion of theirs, but the computer genius had become his responsibility long time ago, and, since he could, he intended to have a say in the matter of replacements.

And sure enough, there was no doubt Shaw was a formidable operative: smart, strong, stubborn, cautious, lethal. Probably as paranoid as the man she was going to work for.

John surprised himself with the certainty of the statement, because he really was sure she would yield, in the end. Harold was good like that, she was going to work for him. He definitely could relate.

Also, friendship aside, Finch still was rational enough not to underestimate the fact that Shaw was at least 10 years younger than John. He could certainly use someone who wouldn't get tired after lifting one suitcase too many during an undercover mission.

At last, the sight of his neighbourhood eased the tension on his shoulders while he unconsciously loosened his grip on the wheel. Not bothering to wait for the detectives to collect their gift-wrapped psychos, it had taken him no more than fifteen minutes to reach his apartment, and by the time he crossed the threshold his body was in agony.

And his fingers were starting to tremble pretty badly, so John put the kettle –the big one- on and hit the send button on his cell phone -forwarding to Harold aliases and last known location of the female operative- before he started to hallucinate and lose focus for good.

No fast poison for him, no such luck. He hadn't just avoided the umpteenth rendezvous with his ex-colleagues at the Agency, so he didn't have 4 minutes before going into shock and leave the world. Actually leave it. To be honest, he didn't even know if the unexpected accomplice had managed to inject a lethal dose of whatever he had injected, since he had knocked him out the moment the lunatic had approached him. Hence no goodbyes this time, just the reassuring thought that he hadn't screwed up and even found Harold a contingency.

It felt like ages before he gauged the water hot enough to let the dark leaves, courtesy of Mr. Han, brew. He had serious reasons to suspect that the substance currently flowing through his veins had something to do with venomous snakes and that tea was the only instant remedy he could think of. Talks with Han were always interesting and if he really was going to make it, he unquestionably had to thank him again for the precious gift. John kept a mug ready by the counter and waited, rubbing absently his forehead. He had to lie down, his head was throbbing mercilessly and everything was dangerously swimming in front of his eyes. Chances were that either he would kick the bucket after excruciating hours of pain, or that he would spend the following 24 hours trying to fight off a particularly painful poison, hopefully managing not to die, after all the effort.

However, since both options implied hours of agony, sweat, fever and god knows what sort of mental and physical degradation, he surely didn't need and wanted Harold there. Again, suffering was such an intimate feeling.

During his previous "accidents", when the most comfortable place to recover had been a military hospital -better not to think about hotel rooms or the wilds with no medical instrument whatsoever- what had truly bothered him had always been the complete absence of privacy: the intruding presence of nurses, doctors, other patients or crazy partners.

Premises being different he wouldn't have minded having Bear there. However that wasn't an option either and he felt a pang of pain that hadn't anything to do with the substance currently intoxicating his blood. He had been well aware, at the time, of the responsibility that bringing a dog to the Library would entail, he hadn't foreseen though, how deep his reckless actions, his excess stress, would affect Bear. And he didn't deserve that, not after his prior experience with the mad Arian (who apparently missed abusing his dog even in jail).

No Bear then, no one.

He really needed to lie down in his bed. He finally poured some tea in the mug and brought it to his mouth with trembling hands. After a few cautious sips, John emptied it, then filled a thermos with the remaining liquid. He brought it to his nightstand and it felt like it weighted tons. He paused for a second, a bit worried at how fast he was losing strength and lucidity. Nonetheless he hoped he would be coherent enough to keep drinking the tea in the following hours.

He sighed, almost defeated, when he finally realised, among other things, how exhausted he was. He carelessly took shirt and pants off and he didn't even remember the moment he had done the same with jacket and coat. They probably lied in a pile in his doorway or forgotten in his car.

After three whole days spent chasing a number with a penchant for illegal introduction of poisonous animals and chemistry, he really hadn't needed to experience his third encounter with venoms.

The first one had occurred when he still was in the Army Special Forces and it was a particularly unpleasant memory. Iraq, the desert. It was true what they said, that a soldier had to face a lot more than enemy's fire. Startled, he had woken up in the middle of the night with a deathstalker on his face. Reacting on sheer instinct, he had blindly shoved the scorpion away, ending up with a single sting on his hand. A single sting on his face and he could have lost his sight, a second one anywhere on his body and he would have been dead. The final verdict had been an anaphylaxis reaction, a swollen hand - which hurt like hell, and the inability to safely hold his rifle for a week.

The second encounter had been during a mission for the Agency. Bad luck hadn't played a role that time, his second intoxication had been desired and deliberate. John had been tortured before, so he wasn't impressed when they had started to inject the poison in order to wring some information out of him. He and Kara were being held in Kot Lakhpat jail - Pakistan, at the time: two unforgettable weeks for all the wrong reasons. The poisoning effects had been inconvenient, as usual, but of course they hadn't uttered a word and of course they had managed to escape, ready to face the next suicidal mission. They really had been a formidable team, in spite of everything.

And finally, there he was: poisoned for the third time, third different location, third different boss. Of course something similar had to happen also under Finch's guidance. Actually, he guessed he should have seen it coming, like some kind of recurrence. Apparently life was being predictable like that, or so it seemed.

He awkwardly removed the duvet and all but collapsed on the soft mattress. His fate could currently be unknown, but the certainty that everything he possessed was first class material always was a comforting constant. The perks of working for a billionaire who could lose 10 million dollars with a not so much heartfelt protest.

John couldn't help but smile at the thought. That had been quite an adventure, crossing an ocean and a continent or two on the whim of a different billionaire. Granted, he was thinking that now, when he hadn't to deal with Logan Pierce's antics anymore. Surely he and Finch had bumped into some peculiar characters along the way. He tried to recall each one of them, and number after number, they all mingled in a blur. His vision was beyond fuzzy now, so there was no point in trying to keep focus on the room. He decided to close his eyes and attempt to enjoy the floating sensation that assaulted his senses immediately.

But it was an "easier said than done": the sting in his side, that had looked so small in the beginning, felt warm and swollen under the light scrutiny of his fingers.  
Also, the slight tingle had almost immediately evolved in a dull, throbbing pain that had rapidly radiated from the tiny hole in his flank to his entire abdomen and back, making impossible to lie supine and comfortable. He curled on his uninjured side then, tender but not that sore, also trying to ease the cramps that were starting to become quite bothersome. Those had come after a while, John diagnosed detachedly, he had already been there, in his apartment, getting the tea started. Clearly the poison was messing up with his stomach as well, but having not eaten at all in the past fourteen hours could probably spare his body the exhausting task of throwing up. He swallowed, trying at least to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth, but he accepted the fact that he couldn't avoid nausea, after all.

Minutes felt like hours and he had to gather all his willpower not to writhe and squirm -useless, involuntary attempts to elude the pain- feeling the exertion in every drop of sweat it was now soaking his body and undershirt. John used the last ounce of strength to disconnect himself from every sensation: from pain, nausea and distress.

And there she was: soft skin under the sun, an open window, kisses, caresses, revelations, tequila and precious instants of real happiness. So many years ago yet a memory he couldn't get rid of, wouldn't let go, if only to remind himself that there had been a moment in his life when he had made the right choice: leave the army, leave the pain and leave the loneliness. The right choice among so many mistakes and hurtful words toward the only person who hadn't really deserved them. Because yes, in the end she had been alone and he hadn't come to save her.

John hadn't saved her because he had been too busy allowing an Agency to steal from him any chance of ordinary life, and, what's more, mock-reward the invaluable sacrifice with a stab in his back.

But Donnelly had been right, he had made the choice, he had taken the decision, naive enough to believe he really could have made a difference while working for them. He should have known better, after being partnered with a sadistic sociopath who "loved" her job. He still didn't know what the hell was he thinking, playing along with those sick games of hers. And while he was destroying his soul, dismantling it, piece by piece, despite that, Jessica still had thought he could help her, that she could still rely on him. 

And besides being unsure he would have been able to even look into her eyes without feeling an incurable shame, he had believed it as well. He had believed he could help her. Still, in the end, when it had really mattered, he hadn't saved her. He hadn't because she was there, she had always been there, in her own way, waiting for him, as if she had heard those mouthed words at the airport. She had always been there and she would have been also after Ordos, right? Just one more mission. Just the last one. Only he had missed his single chance. And what had hurt the most, what still hurt like someone constantly slid barbed wire in and out his chest, was that she would have. Waited. She had trusted him till the end, till the person who should have loved her the most had killed her, abruptly stopping her wait.

And of course, with her gone, he had lost his last piece of soul killing that person. Because he hadn't known who he was anymore.

"What had he become then?"

Gripping the duvet, he lost concentration. Problem with Jessica's memories was that they never ended well. He wasn't in the shape to suffer both mentally and physically at the moment, and the latter condition was back in full force because he had been too busy embarking his guilt trip. He tried to find his focus once more, claim another good moment, some good decision he had to have made. And of course Finch was there. He had thanked him once or twice, not sure if the computer genius had really grasped the importance of his offer. He actually suspected, almost sure, that Harold had chosen him out of guilt, because John had been somehow related to Jess, one of the recurring irrelevant. Or because, still helpless at the time, Finch hadn't intervened to stop John from killing Peter Arndt. Must have been one of those reasons, because there were plenty of ex-operatives with his skills, abilities and experience out there. Again, Shaw surely was a better option and surely Finch had enough patience to tame her, maybe keeping the change for building up a friendship. He himself wouldn't have thought in a million years to reach that sort of connection with the billionaire. Yet there they were, or had been since a few hours ago, sharing takeaways, chats, walks, life or death situations. Playing house with a dog.

It had taken him an entire life to realise he had been wrong from the start. That along with a purpose he had needed someone to share the goal with. The purpose, his purpose, had always been there: in the army, in the Agency, in his everyday life. He just wanted to help people, make a difference. But what hadn't been there was someone who understood that. He didn't want military orders, nor the anonymous, very reliable sources, a sociopathic, crazy partner, not a code from a payphone on the street. No, even that wasn't enough. He had needed someone who cared about what the purpose was about, someone who shared his concerns, his objective and all the emotions that went with that. Rage, worry, care, determination. Someone who could feel the emotions, even if this same someone addressed relationships as "human interaction". 

And as if all that hadn't been enough, this person also cared about him. John didn't know if that had been part of the epiphany. He didn't know if he had always needed that as well. Someone who cared about him, above all things. Care enough to drive him to a coroner in the middle of the night, paying no heed to speed limits or traffic regulations, risking multiple covers and anonymity to save his life. Then look after him, when he was too out of it and hurt to be on his own. Change bandages, change clothes, give him painkillers and a cushion. Care enough to build the perfect cover in real time. Get him out of prison. 

Care enough to end up in a roof not caring about blowing off together with him and kilograms of Semtex. He should have thanked him one more time, now that he was thinking about it, and he hoped to make it through the night and been able to, after all. That and being welcomed by Bear at the Library, once more.

And he must have reached the peak of his condition, because he almost felt like Bear was there, non-intrusive yet reassuring presence in the room. Something pinched his arm, then John realised he wasn't even feeling that hot anymore. He didn't know if he did, but he surely felt like sighing in relief when a fresh sensation lightly ran through his forehead, neck and torso. Less burdened he also felt like trying to take another sip of tea. He blindly searched for the thermos then, clumsily running his hand over the nightstand. When the metal finally came into contact with his fingers it didn't feel as heavy as before. He even managed not to spill a drop of tea on the soaked undershirt he was no longer wearing.

Far beyond the point of exhaustion he decided he could succumb to sleep at last, wincing in pain when he inadvertently brushed his elbow against his side. After a few cautious movements he then found a comfortable position, less pessimistic about managing to wake up in the morning, being poisoned for the third time just another memory to add to a list he didn't care to keep.


	2. Harold Finch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except for grammar mistakes.  
> A/N: Thank you for your kind reviews, I hope you’ll enjoy this second and final part as well. I intended to make it shorter than the first one, but it ended up being just the opposite. I hope you won’t mind. Critique is much appreciated!

It was almost ten in the morning and John had finally fallen in what would appear to be a restful sleep. Under a closer scrutiny, though, Harold could still see lines of pain marking his features, tension in his jaw and the occasional grimace of discomfort. But at least the younger man wasn't delirious anymore and Harold could settle for that, for now.

Prepared to face a long day -had the previous one even come to an end? - he decided to follow his friend’s example and seek a bit of rest, in his own peculiar way, of course. Harold placed his laptop on Reese's desk, the one facing the windows, and arranged the chair in order to keep the bed and its occupant in his line of sight. 

He soon fell in the calming domesticity that only the screen of his computer could give him, completely engrossed while his nimble fingers confidently stroke the familiar keyboard.

After no more than two hours, Harold felt his patient stir and he hoped John wasn't about to regain consciousness just yet. As resilient as the ex-agent could be, certainly his body needed more than a few hours to recover from such an ordeal. Poisons' effects could linger for days and, from the look of it, Reese's organism hadn't even finished fighting them off. 

Harold had reached the loft at around 6 a.m., finding the ex-operative in a hallucinating haze, plagued by fever and nightmares. What had the latter been about he couldn’t guess, but he was sure Reese could boast a wide range of fit candidates for the role.  
And speaking about nightmares, it hadn’t been that long since the ex-agent had spent his free time wandering around the city clad in a bomb vest. 

Or after receiving half a magazine of ammo on the vest he was opportunely wearing. 

The evidence of John very first encounter with Agent Shaw was still there, on his chest. Harold was pretty sure those bruises still hurt a lot, especially the ones covering his ribs. Yet the younger man had almost immediately acted like he was perfectly fine. As well as he had accidentally forgotten to mention he had been poisoned.

Nevertheless Harold had been surprised to discover those bruises were still there, when, hours before, had freed John from an undershirt soaked in sweat. In all honesty he had completely forgotten about them. And not because he wasn’t a highly observant person -on the contrary he could frankly state the exact opposite- but simply because John had wanted him to. Forget. And Harold had learnt a while before that his friend was quite good at making people believe his wounds had disappeared.

And while dithering on whether to clothe John with a clean undershirt or to leave him temporarily without (opting for the latter in the end), he had thought about all the possible times the ex-operative had deceived him or simply made him forget about injuries, for the sake of no-fuss treatments. And not the Harold was by definition the overprotecting type. Only it seemed that Mr. Reese had particularly scarce tolerance towards simple manifestations of consideration.

Truth was he couldn’t really blame the ex-operative. And what was even truer was that he could fully relate, for Harold knew too well the difficulty of getting used again to things you’ve forced yourself to live without, year after year.  
Like trust, honesty, thoughtfulness, friendship.

And if John still had difficulty assimilating that the people who cared about him could be presently enumerated also among the living -clarifications regarding Harold’s official status aside- he would certainly help his friend some more and make him understand.  
Bandage after bandage, cover after cover, and rooftop after rooftop. Undoubtedly Harold would gladly avoid another extreme situation like the latter, but, on the other hand, he was sure that, come the eventuality, he would be just as firm as he had been. 

Taking his glasses off, he rubbed his forehead absently for a second, then promptly repositioned the spectacles in place. He really didn’t need to trouble himself with those thoughts now.

He had almost resumed his work when a shuffling of blankets, then a sharp intake of breath, unmistakably told him that his hope that John would rest for a bit more had been in vain. He immediately shifted his gaze from the screen he hadn’t been focused on for a while, to the bed in front of him. 

“Good morning Mr Reese” he addressed the figure with neutral tone, like John had just arrived to the Library or Harold regularly went to his apartment to simply greet the man when he woke up.

The ex-operative blinked a few times, looking at him in confusion. It was evident he wasn’t fully cognizant yet and most certainly still running a temperature. He even seemed not to notice Bear was there, lying peacefully on the rug at the side of the bed, midway to both his masters.

Harold observed the “patient” as he gingerly tried to lie on his back, like he was testing the position. He suspected the poison was still painfully affecting nerves and muscles, especially those around the tiny hole of the injection, which, according to Reese’s previous bed arrangements, should probably be located on his right side.

He couldn’t be sure; he hadn't fully examined his friend's body. After a brief assessment of no other evident injuries -by evident meaning everything involving copious amounts of blood or bullet holes, he had gotten straight to the point and given Reese the shot he had fetched on his way to the apartment. 

Then he had tried to ease the younger man discomfort, running a wet cloth on his forehead and upper body, quite worried about the raging fever the ex-CIA was running.

Under Harold's attentive watch, John rubbed his eyes sluggishly, in the attempt to regain a semblance of lucidity. He wasn’t very successful, the slowness of the process betrayed his actual condition and surprised Harold: he wasn't used to seeing the man so out of it, especially if the same man wasn’t drugged to the eyeballs after an off-the-cuff surgery.  
It took a while also before the ex-agent ventured to speak.

“Finch, what are- never mind, you can tell me after I've peed”, and apparently, even then, more urgent matters needed his attention.

The sentence had been barely whispered, nothing out of the ordinary then, except maybe a deeper inflection due the recent awakening.

Still vigilant, Harold watched John leave the bed, posture sagged, more than a bit unsteady on his feet, however managing to reach the bathroom safely only with the aid of a chair along the way.

He didn't try to help. Harold didn’t even rise from the comfortable chair. First because, as he had recalled just moments before, he was quite aware of John's well-known aggravation at being the object of whatsoever stage of fussing. 

Secondly, it wasn't that he hadn't got the implicit message. He was conscious of the fact that at the moment John wanted to be on his own and Harold really understood the longing for privacy, the need to keep some feelings, like suffering, to an intimate level. That's why he had let him be, the previous evening, however aware that something was amiss. 

But of course those reasons hadn’t stopped Harold from urging upon “their” detectives and conduct his own investigation. After shortly debriefing with Carter and Fusco, who once again had pulled some strings and requested crime lab analysis in the middle of the night, he had patiently waited for the results, keeping himself busy with general research on the subject. And the clock had indicated five thirty in the morning, when the above-mentioned results had finally arrived through a text from Detective Fusco, once again the unfortunate one who had had to put up with the ungodly hours and, in one way or the other, with Wonderboy problems.

After a few phone calls and with no other options at hand, Harold had collected the vial from one of his trustworthy suppliers and headed straight to John's loft. And he was glad that, in spite of everything he understood about the man, he had. He couldn't certainly risk not making himself useful in some way, if not able to solve the problem. 

Maybe he did have some “surveillance” issues; maybe he should really respect other people’s privacy, for a change. However, Mr Reese wasn't other people, he had stopped being so long before they had started working together, and he couldn't accept a total keep-out from the former soldier’s life. 

After that rooftop Harold had hoped John got the message, but aforementioned difficulty asides, the younger man was still being plain mulish about it. Trust him to be so. However, having been mulish himself, now and then, Harold didn't take that personally. Or maybe he did, better than John would expect, since he had an idea or two about Reese altruistic reasons behind such shutdown.

He genuinely understood and appreciated John’s attempt to keep him away from pain and helplessness, but honestly, Harold would rather be part of the worst-case scenario instead of safely and soundly doing nothing. Even if every option was reduced to the one of helplessly watch John Reese die. Especially then. 

As a result of all his realizations, though, Harold only mentally noted that the chat they were going to have, in any case, would merely be longer than the one he had planned.

And just when he was starting to think John’s little trip was taking too long, no-fuss rule ignored for rise of unexpected circumstances, he spotted the operative slowly emerging from the bathroom's door.  
Reese had put an old t-shirt on, and Harold was thankful, because one of the main reasons he hadn’t done that himself, hours prior, had been the inconveniency of manoeuvring an unconscious 6’ 2’’ man in and out of his clothes, fused spine or not.

Harold's look became more concerned when he monitored John's return. It seemed Bear was doing the same, now fully alert in front of his Alpha. He watched John acknowledge his dog’s presence at last, greeting him half-heartedly, with a hasty pat on his head. Bear didn’t seem to mind, tail wagging all the time. 

The ex-agent looked apologetically at the devoted dog, and then sat heavily on the bed, once again rubbing his forehead in what could only be interpreted as a futile attempt to keep a headache at bay. 

Satisfied, Bear went back to his previous position on the rug, and Harold found himself amazed, once more, by the deep, utter loyalty the dog displayed towards John. Frankly he shouldn’t be really surprised, because he still remembered quite clearly how inconsolable Bear had been during John’s forced absence. And how the stressful events had affected him even after his Alpha had returned. 

Harold had always considered himself too busy to take care of a dog, yet now he never failed to find five minutes for a walk in the park, or take a break from hours of coding to feed him. He cherished those little moments and again he had to thank John for that. 

John, who already looked exhausted, probably too tired to even conceal it, during the umpteenth, useless attempt to find a comfortable position on his mattress. 

After a last struggle, he ended up half sitting, half slumping on the headboard, ashen and worn out. It wasn’t the first time Harold had seen him this pale, but the thought was far from encouraging because Reese had been bleeding to death, at the time.

He watched the younger man fiddle with the blanket then, probably dwelling on whether to control the shivers or to endure them in order to enliven his battle against fever. After a few seconds he settled for a sheet. A good compromise, in Harold’s eyes.

And if the situation hadn't been so dire he even could have found John's behaviour almost funny, acting all puzzled over some covers.

At last, Harold decided it was appropriate enough to approach him, his limp feeling almost bearable that morning. He offered John the thermos filled with fresh tea, observing with tiny comfort that at least he was now coherent enough to drink by himself. Forcing a half unconscious, delirious ex-operative to do the same, early that morning had proved to be quite the challenging task.

John was drinking slowly, with careful sips, and clearly just because he had to. Harold didn't insist when he gave up, returning the thermos with shaking hands. He accepted the object back, not surprised when he received it together with an inquiring look, which was evidently mimicking the question Reese had half-asked before going to the bathroom. Nonetheless, Harold decided to ignore it, once again, following his own line of discussion.

“Mr Reese, I must admit your misuse of the sentence I'm fine has reached an astonishing new level”.

He put it as a mild reproach, while re-positioning the thermos on the nightstand. He remembered asking the man now lying on the bed if he was okay, question raised the previous evening, after the ex-agent had hastily left the crime scene without an actual explanation.

Leaving John's side for a moment, Harold picked up a couple of things from a metal box next to his laptop, on John's desk.

He glanced outside the windows for a moment and, despite being a little too exposed compared to his standard locations, Harold had to admit it had been nice for a change, to spend the first half of the morning working in such luminous surroundings. If John was going to fall asleep soon he could get back to his code again, facing then a busy midday square.

Perfectly able to conduct a conversation that had nothing to do with what was currently going through his head, Harold carried on with his little speech.

“I'd be glad if you would call me, in case you deduced again another risk of imminent death. It wouldn’t be the first time, John.” 

Harold knew the time he was referring to had been different. They had been different, as it had been in the basement of the bank. 

Reese looked at him almost sheepishly then, but not really repentant. He knew it had been different as well. He also didn’t feel the need to reply, too busy eyeing the syringe Harold was now holding.

"This should catalyse the effect of the tea", he answered to the unasked question. "I trusted our detective to collect some samples from the crime scene, making sure they paid extra attention to the content of the half-emptied syringe they found on the floor, which, I suppose, it was the one the unexpected accomplice surprised you with."

Harold gently lifted the ex-agent’s arm then, slowly injecting the catalyst, more confident and undoubtedly less agitated, since John wasn’t currently fighting back. His previous attempt hadn’t been that smooth, still, he was sure it could have gone worse.

"The results have come back early this morning, showing an innovative synthetic poison, based on Texas coral snake's venom. Its neurotoxin causes severe neuromuscular dysfunction, which appears to be very painful", he explained while dabbing the little sting with an alcohol swab.

He paused his ministrations for a moment to acknowledge Reese’s gaze, which undoubtedly expressed a loud and clear Tell me about it.

“It's a fortune you choose your friends wisely, Mr. Reese”, he continued as John turned on his side again, facing those wide windows Harold had picked the apartment for. Maybe he was looking for “the” friend and xiangqi companion. 

All business-like, Harold put to use the position taking his temperature with an electronic thermometer.

“Those black leaves of tea are the only known natural antidote for snakes' poison. I'm afraid not even my resourceful suppliers could have found that particular quality or an effective antidote that quick on such short notice".

He sensed John’s gaze on him again. His eyes were red and glassy, looking even clearer than usual. However, they held lucidity and focus when John spoke up, without wavering.

"I know, Harold. That's why I didn't call."

And he froze for a second, because it was true. Because John was never afraid to voice the truth. Because it was upsetting. Because after almost two years there still was something they weren’t prepared for. 

They had been lucky again. But it occurred to him, not for the first time, that they could never abandon the certainty of always being at risk. Condition immutable, no difference if their years of experience were two or ten. There would always be something unexpected, something too big, even for them, which would bring them down in the end. 

Sometimes he almost managed to avert that thought, just after breaching another level of invincibility he wouldn’t have believed conceivable. 

Just for a little while, the moment never lasted long after all. The bitter knowledge never stopped affecting his emotions and reactions. 

His joy was always measured, always controlled, even in front of broad, disarming smiles John was able to display, tumbling on the floor with a 75 pounds dog. Even in front of hesitant gratitude, several “thank yous” and dog meetings in the park.  
He just couldn’t bring himself to enjoy those moments, fully and light-heartedly. That was another difficulty of his and Harold didn’t know if he’d ever be able to overcome it.

He finally realized the thermometer had long beeped so he took a look at the display: 101.2 F. Still quite high, but descending. Hopefully John would manage to get some deserved rest, this time. 

Also, with him asleep all the stillness would actually make sense. The loft was too silent, even for them, and Harold was almost looking forward to a quick banter, the refusal of painkillers, objections about being bedridden. 

That silence spoke volumes about their plight and honestly, he didn’t want to listen. It seemed there was no respite for them. Not in the past months. December had been dreadful, but March hadn’t brought anything better. And the mysterious deadline was frighteningly approaching. The Machine had been somehow infected and the outcome would certainly be dangerous as much as it was unidentified.

Once again the persistent gaze was there and he stopped staring blindly at the object in his hand. Harold realized he had been quite absorbed in his musing and, almost startled, he reciprocated the look, glancing again into pale blue eyes. 

Now they look worried, and there Harold could see nothing but honest concern. He was almost taken aback by the thought that he had grown used to that as well. That he had grown accustomed to honesty again. From a man, above all, in the beginning he hadn't even trusted with the smallest detail, like what was good in that particular diner.

Harold had ended up revealing that and much more. About Grace, hospitals and hotels. 

Trust is something I don’t come by very easily, he had told John once, when the man simply had been Mr Reese. 

Of course the “Mr Reese” was still there, out of habit, out of mockery. They were past that point though, the point where formalities & detachment had been the only possible approach to start their “business”. But it didn’t bother Harold, not at all. Trust being a rare gift coming from him didn’t mean he couldn’t give it willingly, without regrets, should the right person come. 

In the past he could have thought he wasn’t able anymore, not after the price that the gesture had cost Nathan and Grace, but John had almost demanded it and he had earned the present, like every other gift Harold had given him. 

And truly, he still deserved it, even if he was stubborn and pig-headed.

Even if he hadn’t called to say goodbye, that time, breaking with their odd tradition and risking a tragic outcome Harold was glad he didn’t have to face. Not that day.  
Finally gathering his composure back, he replied with his best practical tone.

"Be that as it may, John, in the eventuality we're going to be, once more, such unfortunate, I’d really appreciate being informed, since you didn't bring breakfast and it was yet again your turn to dry your dog."

At those words, Harold was pleased to see the ghost of a smile appear on John's face, and it wasn’t long when he watched him, somewhat reassured, surrender to a restful slumber.

He wasn't done with his reprimand, frankly he hadn’t even started it, but he decided to wait till the ex-agent would be at least coherent enough to pay due attention also to the Shaw topic. John had to know that the contingency he had sent Harold the night before wasn't as perfect as he was sure Reese believed. 

He was quite certain John still had some difficulty also in grasping the fact that he was the perfect candidate. Not Shaw, nor some other skilled ex-CIA, let alone any regular mercenary. 

Harold didn’t need other resumes, other applicants. The Machine had already made its choice. And, if the transitive relation wasn’t a lie, its creator himself had. 

Furthermore, skills and experience aside, that choice was also based on John innate altruism, which was, by definition, something not even years of training could provide. 

He had to make sure Mr Reese understood that as well. Or at least got the gist of the speech. They didn't have that kind of talks, after all.

He just had to wait a little more to tell John the necessary, but Harold didn't mind. He was a very patient person.

 

End


End file.
